


Murder at Rhiwbina Twmpath

by BloggingtheBatch (Cumberwriter)



Series: The Benedict Cumberbatch Mysteries [1]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Benedict Cumberbatch - Freeform, Gen, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:32:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2588459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumberwriter/pseuds/BloggingtheBatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We've all dreamt of a chance encounter with our favorite actor.  But when Jordan Banks realizes the stranger on the train is her celebrity crush, she never imagines  they'll become suspects in a murder investigation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jordan Banks wished for a jetpack. Her first "Cardiff Monday" in March and she was late. She'd overslept, the taxi was caught in traffic and First Great Western wasn't going to be holding any trains for an American nobody who only traveled first class because her company paid the freight.

The twice-monthly trips weren't bad when she accomplished ninety percent of her workday's tasks during the two-plus hour train ride. But she only managed that if she got to the station early. With her pick of seats, Jordan could settle into the very last seat with only one facing seat. (Across the aisle, the seats were doubled.) If she set up her laptop to cover most of the tabletop, British reserve prevented the few who did venture down asking her to make room for them. By the time the journey was over she'd have the data analyzed, reports pulled and projections done for the Cardiff Center of Mercy Fund, International.

Jordon wasn't supposed to do all of this, Edna-Ruth was. But Edna-Ruth was not about to learn the new database system the young American brought over. She still missed her fat Rolodex with color-coded cards and tags. The "database" she'd designed herself. Edna-Ruth was an MFI icon; she practically invented aid to Africa. With only two years to retirement, no one was going to replace her with someone younger and computer savvy. So Jordon made the twice-a-month journey to Cardiff, which she really didn't mind. With the job mostly done before she got there, she'd only to upload and run the preset programs. Easily finished before noon, she spent the rest of the day visiting castles, poking around shops, and being the tourist she didn't have time to be in London.

But not today. Today she would be late and probably have to share a four-seater with three English over-stuffed shirts. One would invariably speak to her, comment on her "accent" and monopolize her time until he reached his destination. No amount of staring pointedly at her laptop screen while mumbling a distracted _um hmmm_ to his every tedious observation would convince him she wasn't sent by Providence for his personal entertainment.

Jordan looked around at the gridlocked traffic and hoped everyone else on her train was stuck in the same jam she was.

**~~**

_Jet packs_ , Jordan thought as she surveyed the crowded first-class carriage. _Why haven't they invented jetpacks?_

She worked her way down the aisle, finding only a few empty seats and always next to the kind of riders she most wanted to avoid. One even grinned and patted the seat next to him. _Yeah, sure, Buddy, can hardly wait to spend two hours with you._ Nearing the end of the car, she saw her preferred seat occupied by two stiff Brits in nondescript gray suits. Both men anonymous behind newspapers held up to their faces. Jordon approached the space opposite, hoping at least one of the four seats was available so she wouldn't have to face The Grinner again.

A sneaker-clad foot protruded almost into the aisle. Above it: the gray leg of what were obviously sweatpants. _Sweatpants?_

Another step revealed the leg belonged to a lanky guy in a blue windbreaker, cap pulled down over his forehead, arms crossed over his chest, slumped into the corner. The legs stretched diagonally under the table and the white cord leading from his cell on the table to the earbuds he wore, sent a clear message: _I do not wish to share this space_. Jordon smiled. With the guy's face half-buried in a ratty gray muffler wrapped about his neck and the outsized sunglasses worn on this typically gray London morning, he was obviously Jordan's perfect seatmate.

Grateful to be an American with no semblance of British reserve, Jordon pulled out her laptop and plonked it down on the table just hard enough for him to know her intention was to sit. And wake him if he was asleep behind those shades. She tossed her large black bag to the window seat and waited for him to move his legs. His knees bent, the sneakers disappeared from view. _Not asleep, then._ Jordon slid into the aisle seat kitty-corner from The Invisible Man, as she now thought of him.

Jordon opened her laptop wondering what a guy who looked like he should be sleeping off last night's bender on the Tube was doing in first class on the Great Western? She took another quick look. He didn't smell bad, though, and the auburn hair that curled around the edges of the cap looked clean. She turned back to her work with a shrug. Bums didn't ride this train in this section. Jordan called up her Major Donors list. _Probably some eccentric Lord or Duke or whatever._ Set up search parameters. Another glance. _That scarf._ Even though it was March in London, overcast and gray, it was also fairly mild. That combination always made Jordan feel sticky and in constant need of a shower. _He must really want to hide. Gangster?_

She rolled her eyes at herself. _Gangster? Next you'll think he's "on the lam." Doofus._ _Maybe all he's hiding is a huge hickey._ She grinned. And giggled. Eyes fixed on her screen lest she look at him again and burst out laughing. _I really need some coffee_.

**~~~**

"The Invisible Man," aka Benedict Cumberbatch, caught Jordan's scent before he could see her.  Something floral with a spicy undertone.  _Gobackgobackgobackgoback_.  He projected his mental message to the unseen probable fan.

Benedict didn't usually mind fan encounters. Occasionally, he even enjoyed them. But not this morning. Too much whiskey, too many cigarettes and too little sleep left him wishing for solitude and a couple hours of actual sleep instead of the feigned sleep he was hoping would deter potential seatmates.

He wished he had a way of deflecting this woman that wouldn't seem rude and result in his name trending on Twitter before he even made it to Cardiff. Benedict hoped she'd be put off by his scruffy clothes and not look at him too closely. His actor's mind pondered ways of appearing asleep and a bit of a threat, simultaneously. His brows pulled together, chin thrust out and corners of his mouth turned down. _Brilliant, Benedict_. _You might look quite off-putting this way if anyone could see your face_.

The woman came into view, looked him over and put down her laptop, all the while staring him straight in the eye.  _Can she see me?_   But he knew she couldn't. He'd tested the concealing quality of the lenses himself under strong light. Her large shoulder bag hit the far side of the window seat and Benedict resigned himself to her not buying his sleeping act or else being quite willing to wake him. So he shifted his legs just enough for her to sit.

He studied her as she opened the laptop and went right to ... posting on Twitter or Facebook that she was sitting across from him? She did sneak a few looks at him. Then, eyes fixed on her screen, she smiled and broke into a giggle with nary a flicker in his direction. _Everything is not about you, you know,_ he chided himself. Benedict had learned that fame made almost everyone more or less egocentric, though he did try and fight it.

The train lurched. He automatically glanced at his watch. The trolley would be along soon. _I could really use some coffee_.

**~~~~**

As the train started to move, the low bat prompt came up on Jordan's screen. She leaned over her bag searching for her powercord at the same time The Invisible Man checked his watch. Hard to miss. It was a big watchface compared to his slender wrist. Jordon pulled a handful of MFI brochures out and located the cord at the bottom tangled up with her hairbrush, still thinking about the watch. Why did it seem familiar?

Freeing the cord, she bent sideways over the laptop to locate the plug space. From this angle, she could see something on the other wrist of her seatmate. Barely visible just inside his windbreaker sleeve, a distinctive silver and black band. A Sami bracelet. _No. Nononononono. Nope. Uh-uh. Cannot possibly be_.

Now Jordan Banks spent rather a lot of time in her non-profit job schmoozing rich people for money. So she was adept at controlling what emotions crossed her face, managing to look amused hearing a joke for the nineteenth time, or interested instead of appalled when some guy with a fat wallet and a soft spot for African AIDS orphans expressed his unsavory opinions about gay people. Her job was to get the money for the kids. She was very good at her job. So she didn't jump or squee or stare or shout. She plugged in her powercord.

 _Cap. Watch. Sunglasses. Scarf. Hair. Benedict fucking Cumberbatch is sitting two feet away from me. Hell, Benedict Cumberbatch's fucking two feet are right under my nose._ And that was the thought that did it. Defeating her self-discipline, surrendering to the adrenaline that made her heart pound in her ears, she started to giggle. _Crap._ Then laugh out loud. A lot.

As if offended by her laughter, Gray Suits One and Two rose and walked away. This struck her as even funnier than the image of smelling Benedict's feet. Jordan clapped her hands over her mouth to get some control. Finally, the laughter subsided. She took a breath. Straightened her face. A quick nod in Benedict's direction without actually looking at him. "Sorry to disturb you," she murmured and focused again on lists of donations and address changes. _I'm hallucinating. Wishful fangirl thinking._

Another nondescript businessman slipped into the seat across the way just as the train lurched again. He braced himself against the window with one gloved hand and leaned on the tabletop with the other, falling into the seat just ahead of the trolley. Great Western provided what an American would call "coffee and" for free. Tea and coffee, fruit and what was referred to as "morning goods:" muffins and pastries. She took tea and an apple and, in deference to having turned thirty, aware her metabolism was slowing, resisted the apricot danish.

The steward (or "host" as the company called them) asked her seatmate if he'd like anything. Jordan naturally turned to look at him as he answered, "Black coffee, thank you. And a water?" _Not Benedict's voice._ But as he reached for the bottle and cup, the scarf slipped revealing part of his mouth for a second. Jordan saw the distinctive scar at the right side of his lower lip, made more obvious by a few days growth of beard. _It was him_. Jordan realized he'd altered his voice, unaware she'd already recognized him, trying to maintain what he still believed was anonymity.

She tucked one foot underneath her, angling her body toward the aisle. Shifted her laptop so she was facing away from him, giving him a bit of privacy.  Across the way, the steward handed a newspaper to Glove Guy. She focused on that for a moment. It gave her peace, oddly, to know her slip of self-control hadn't ruined her seatmate's commute. It was very unlikely anyone else would be boarding. Glove Guy was looking through a stack of papers, using a red pencil to make notes. He certainly wasn't going to be wanting a selfie or an autograph. _Please, Lord, let me be a grown-up for once and put someone else before my dumb personal stuff. Though I might take that danish if You bring back the guy with the trolley. Amen._ Then she lost herself in datafields and reports and analyses.

**~~~~~**

When Laptop Girl shifted in her seat, Benedict had a view of her screen. It wasn't Twitter or Facebook or Tumblr. A logo at the top said (he squinted a little) Mercy Fund, International. The logo matched the one on the front of a few brochures she'd turfed out of her bag and left at his end of the table. Her screen seemed to be filled with the most boring possible kind of data, names and numbers. The screen shifted and new windows opened, each as dull as the last. She worked swiftly and efficiently it seemed to him, though he hadn't a clue what she was doing.

He was quite relieved, however. When she'd gone off into gales of laughter, he'd believed she was responding to something online. But now ... How could a list of names be _that_ amusing? He considered for a moment the state of her mental health.  But he knew MFI was an old and respectable charity and she must have a position of some importance there, why else would she be riding in first class? There might have been something else on the screen before she turned it. _You have far too much imagination for your own good._

Though she was mostly turned away, he took the precaution of facing the window as he chugged the water and drank off the coffee. Benedict had a quirk of metabolism that responded to coffee with relaxation rather than jitters. He recrossed his arms and settled into the corner. Laptop Girl clicked rhythmically away. The landscape rushed by. The sound of the train a steady thrum. He slept.

**~~~~~~**

Benedict became conscious of Laptop Girl gathering her things. His first thought was that she doing this more noisily than absolutely necessary to awaken him. He turned his head cautiously, experience sleeping on trains taught him to expect the crick in his neck. His second thought was that he needed to get to the loo. He slid out of the seat. She gave him a brief smile, barely looking up. "Ten minutes to Cardiff." He nodded and hurried away.

Jordan snapped her bag shut, resolved to get through the next part without ever letting him know she knew. She'd tell someone, later, of course. Who? Who would she tell who would believe her without pictures and not spread it all over the 'net? Jordan's job had long-trained her to respect and protect the privacy of the wealthy donors her non-profit depended on. Benedict Cumberbatch wasn't the first actor she'd dealt with. He was just the first one she was a huge fan of, personally.

And she so longed to just ... just shake his hand and have the megawatt grin turned in her direction and hear him say her name. Or just "hello." To her. And part of her hated this thing in herself she always thought she was "above." Too smart for. Too sensible. Too grounded. _Fangirl_. She sometimes thought there should be meetings in church basements once a week for women like her to take a podium one at a time to say, _"My name is Jordan and I am Cumberbatched" ... "Hi, Jordan!"_

She decided her best bet was to leave the seat and wait by the door for the train to stop. Frowned upon by rail authorities, though. She peeked up the aisle. No official personnel in sight. She was up gathering her things when the voice came from behind her. "You're forgetting these?" The so familiar hand with artist's fingers reached past her for the pile of brochures and held them out. Her stomach dropped. Her heart rose. _Breathe._ He still had the glasses on but the scarf had slipped down revealing surely most recognizable mouth in any hemisphere. Some part of her brain dimly registered that the train had stopped, announcements were being made, doors opening, passengers disembarking.

By a monumental effort (possibly a miracle) of will she pulled her professional persona together. A friendly smile. "No, I didn't, but thank you. I always leave a few behind. Sometimes one manages to get us a donation."

He put them back on the table. Jordan moved off toward the door with a wave. She didn't see him pick up one of the Mercy Fund brochures and slip it into his pocket.

What she knew as she climbed into a cab was that she would spend at least a few days berating herself with  _coulda-shoulda-wouldas_.  You _could_ have said this.  You _should_ have done that.  He would have ...  have _what_?  Been polite?  Asked for some privacy?  Benedict Cumberbatch was not going to be charmed into some personal relationship by her, fabulous her. There'd been no opportunity to miss. She'd done the best thing she could figure out how to do in the circumstances. Her little voice would nag, she knew.  She would tell it to STFU. 

At the Cardiff office she rushed through her work.  Barely spoke to Edna-Ruth.  Left even earlier than usual. 

The day was more pleasant than London, blue showing through puffy clouds, a hint of spring in the air.  She rented a spiffy red scooter and took off for the countryside instead of poking around shops or visiting museums.  She wanted to be alone because her mind was full of Benedict.  It was stupid, she kept telling herself.  But there he'd been, right there. For over two hours. And she wanted to relive it. She wanted to fix the memory of the few brief words. The sound of his breathing as he slept. She wanted to let herself feel good that he had slept in her company.  That he'd felt safe enough. She wanted to indulge, drown in the experience.  So she could let it all go.  Paste it into the memory book of her mind and not have it interfering with work thoughts or her real everyday relationships.

Jordan was meandering north when she saw what looked like a huge mass of trees and bushes in the otherwise gently rolling landscape.  She slowed - it looked familiar. Realizing where she was, she thought it might be the Rhiwbina Twmpath, a Norman motte.  A man-made hill that a tower or castle was built upon.  She'd never looked for it because there really had been no evidence of a castle or "bailey," on top and if there had been a lookout tower, it had been gone and rotted away for a thousand years.  It just wasn't a very "touristy" site.  And in modern times, to the tourist's eye, it appeared just as she first saw it: a lot of large bushes and trees covering a heap of rocks about twenty feet high. 

Still, it was built in the 11th century.  By the Devil if one believed legend.  She steered the scooter into the surrounding neighborhood and walked about a bit.  But the fields surrounding it were squishy and wet.  She could see other footprints in the thin March growth, depressed with a bit of muddy water at bottom.  Dressed for work in an office not trekking across muddy fields, Jordan headed back to Cardiff's station. It was only just on three o'clock, but the sun was already lowering. And as she drove, realized her encounter with Benedict had moved to the back of her mind.  She thought if he could be so easily dislodged by a heap of old dirt and rocks, she actually had a fairly healthy perspective on the whole thing.

 

 **The next day** , Jordan was swamped.  Her morning coffee grew cold and her paper lay unread as she wrangled a database threatening to delete last quarter's donations and crash the system, as well.  This left no room for thoughts of her Cardiff Commuter, as she took to calling Benedict in her mind.  No more Benedict.  Then,  just as she was getting ready to leave, a messenger arrived with an envelope.  It held a thousand-pound bank check directed specifically to her attention.  The donation was anonymous, but there was a note: I could tell from your face when we spoke that you knew my secret. Thanks for your discretion.

Jordan smiled as she re-directed the check for processing and slipped the note into her purse. _Nice man_ , she thought.  And a lovely end to the story of her encounter she'd someday tell ... well, she'd think of someone. She grabbed the Times she'd hadn't had a chance to look at and headed out. 

But Fate wasn't done intertwining the lives of the A-list actor and the American database manager.  If she'd gotten a few pages into her paper, she'd have seen the story about the body of a man identified only as a Great Western employee, discovered Monday night, at the base of Rhiwbina Twmpath. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Come this way, Miss Banks," the balding blond detective she was calling "Frick" in her mind directed.  He didn't invite and certainly didn't ask. He directed.  "Frack" fell in behind her: darker, shorter and frumpier.  _Can you call men "frumpy?"_ A glance back at the ill-fitting gray suit and scuffed brown shoes, the loosely knotted too-wide for this year tie with the remains of breakfast on it (possibly yesterday's) and Jordan decided: _Yup._   

Jordan was at New Scotland Yard.  It would have seemed quite a romantic adventure to her if the building wasn't so achingly modern and didn't resemble a gigantic urban greenhouse.  The room she was shown to not at all Homicide, Life on the Street but more dermatologist-waiting-room-designer-neutral.  She faced Frick and Frack across a plain table occupied only by a file folder, a small digital recorder, Frick's forearms and clasped hands.  Frack sat with his hands folded on a roll of fat that pooched out when he'd slumped back in his chair.

Frick announced the names of all parties, the date and time for the benefit of the recorder.

"I don't know why we couldn't do this on the phone," Jordan said.

"It's a murder investigation," Frick answered her.

She repressed the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, I'm aware.  I'm not minimizing the importance of the issue, but as I said when you called, I simply have nothing at all of use to tell you."

"Thing is, you see," Frack joined in.  "You seem to be the last person known to have spoken to the victim." He leaned forward and read from the file in front of Frick. "Geoffrey Vrtis."

"Wait.  I wasn't the last person - he was the steward on the Great Western Cardiff commuter, correct?" 

"Host."

"Yes.  Sorry.  Anyway, I wasn't the last. He served us and then went on to the man across the aisle."

Frick perked up. "Us?"

Jordan was surprised. "Well, yes.  You have interviewed - contacted at least  - the ... " she hesitated. "...  the person sitting across the table from me, I assume." 

Jordan would never be able to explain why she was hestitant to use Benedict's name at that moment. Maybe it was that she was so used to keeping the encounter private, she had trouble switching gears. She'd told no one who she'd travelled to Cardiff with.  There'd been something oddly intimate in Benedict knowing she'd known and not saying anything at the time, either.  It was a kind of connection in shared intent. Maybe he simply wanted to get away without having to point at her in front of an iPhone camera. Maybe she was reading far too much into it. But Jordan valued the encounter so much, she wanted to keep it all her own.

The men exchanged looks. Frick, "There wasn't anyone across from you.  Or next to you, according to the records. And other passenegers.  You rode the whole trip by yourself."

"That's ridiculous, of course there was."

Frack gave her a sly smile, "The Invisible Man, was it?" 

That surprised her.  It was what she had called him in her mind. "Yes, in a way.  He was wrapped up, you see. Sunglasses, hat, scarf.  He's a - well - a celebrity and  didn't want to be recognized."

"That right?  A celebrity.  Incognito. He told you this, did he?"

Jordan was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. "No. We didn't really speak. It was just obvious from the way he was dressed.  His hat pulled down, dark glasses on inside, the muffler pulled up over his mouth. Pretending to be asleep. He's a famous man on a train and was looking for privacy."

Frack.  "So you decided this bloke must be someone famous because you couldn't see his face and he didn't talk to you?"

Frick flipped through the pages of the file.  "And not one other person in that carriage saw anyone who was 'all wrapped up' go through?"

Jordan could feel the heat rise up her neck and  knew her face was flushing.  "He probably got to the station early so he could get the seat at the very end and no one would see him.  I recognized him by his bracelet."

The detectives made no effort to hide how totally they disbelieved her.

Frick. "The celebrity who didn't want to be recognized wore a bracelet?"

"It's ... it's a Sami bracelet.  He always wears it."

Frack.  "This celebrity who is so famous he rides the commuter train in disguise wears a bracelet from a guy named Sammy.  All the time. And you know this."

"S-A-M-I. It's reindeer leather with pewter," she snapped. "Look, why don't you just call the man?  I'm sure Scotland Yard must have a way to reach out to the rich and famous." 

Frick pulled out a notebook. "You want to tell us his name?"

"Benedict Cumberbatch."

They laughed. A lot. Frick had to wipe his eyes. Jordan's hands went cold. She realized how ridiculous that sounded without some kind of evidence. Then she remembered.

"He wrote me a note," she said, raising her voice over their chuckling. She searched in her purse, pulled out the folded sheet of paper that had come with the check and pushed it across the table. "The next day.  Tuesday.  He sent a donation and wrote me a note."

Frack pulled the paper toward himself.  Frick: "Benedict Cumberbatch, the film actor, sent you a check and this note." He glanced over at it. "Which is an unsigned print-out." The detectives exchanged another of their looks. "Can you get us a copy of the check, at least?"

"Absolutely," she said with a conviction which lasted about two full seconds. _Crap_.  "I mean.  I can get it, but it was a bank check.  Anonymous." The looks of derision said more than words. "No, look.  I'm telling the truth. You can find out, I know you can.  You're Scotland Yard, after all." A stony silence. "For heaven's sake, why would I lie?  You can't think I had anything to do with that man's death."

Frack, who's identification tag read "Dennis Stovall," pulled out his mobile. "Sherry?  Yeah.  No, I'm with a - person. That actor you're always on about.  Cumberbatch.  ... Yeah.  I'm going to ask a question, don't ask me why, just answer.  Does he wear any jewelry?  Rings or ...? ... Uh-huh. ... Uh-huh.  ... How the hell do you know that?  ... Everybody?  No. ... No. Nevermind."

Frick gave his partner a curious look. Jordan waited. Stovall thought it over.  "Sami bracelet.  Says he wears it all the time. Reindeer leather."  Jordan felt relief until he went on. "Thing is, she also said 'everybody knows that.'  If all his fans know, you could just use the detail to prop up the story." 

He leaned forward, took a paper from the file and slid it over to her.  It was the rental slip for the scooter. "You left the train and hired a scooter.   Your Cardiff office says you make that trip twice a month. But you've never hired a scooter before.  Always use taxis."

He pulled out another paper, a report. "Edna-Ruth Weatherill, a co-worker, says you were ... 'distracted' is the word she used. Left earlier than usual.  Says you only give 'em half a day, anyway." He found another report. "Your boss here in London says you never come back from these trips early. Never come back to the office until next day."

He sat back and waited, watching her.  Jordan remained still and quiet. This is the part on TV where you ask for a lawyer.  _They don't call them that here, do they?_   She felt a rising panic.  _I don't know what to call them.  How will I find one?_    
   
Detective "Frack" Stovall only saw a stubborn woman refusing to speak. "Vrtis was dealing on the train.  Just a bit of herb to his regular passengers. Nothing too serious.  But he did have a dodgy reputation if you know what I mean.  Been in a few a scrapes now and then.  Suspected in more." Jordan said nothing.  What would she say, after all?

"You always took that same train, didn't you Miss Banks?  Sat in the last row of the First Class carriage. And Vrtis always worked that train."  He picked up one last report. "Percival Potts, retired, let his cat in and saw, across the field his garden backs up to, a woman fitting your description walking out of the field to a red scooter about three in the afternoon."

He paused. Stared at her.  Waited.  Her mouth went dry. 

He went on. "In the center of that field is a local landmark of sorts, the Rhiwbina Twmpath. You might have read in the paper, hour later or so, couple lads mucking about with their dog on the way home to tea found Vrtis' body under some bushes at the bottom of the Twmpath. Somebody'd shoved an icepick, or something like it, into the back of his neck. Right up into his brain. Body wasn't even cold."

Jordan's throat was so constricted, she feared she soon would not be able to draw breath.  _Don't faint. Do not faint. Foreign country.  I'm in a foreign country_.

The U.K. had never really felt very foreign to Jordan.  It was more like when she went to Mardi Gras in New Orleans.  The food just slightly askew from what she'd consider normal.  The accents sometimes made the locals difficult to understand.  In fact, Jordan had often remarked that it was harder to understand what an American native to New Orleans was saying than a typical British rider on the London Tube. But now, in this creepy beige room with these hard-faced men, she felt friendless and a billion miles from home. A stranger in a very strange land, indeed, where anyone could entertain the idea she could murder a drug dealer.

Jordan forced herself to speak. Her voice very soft and high from the stress.  "I have a question." Stovall nodded for her to go ahead. "What do you call lawyers here?"

**~~**

An hour later, Jordan was marvelling at how surreal people hurrying along the sidewalk seemed. They drove cars, went on about the day's business as if they couldn't be accused of murder at any moment.  The sun came through a break in the overcast and Jordan threw back her head and closed her eyes. _Thank You, God._   

As soon as she'd mentioned the word "lawyer," Frack had backed off a bit and said they were only asking questions.  It took her a few more minutes to convince them she had nothing more to say. She did this by refusing to speak at all.  Finally, they said they'd be holding her passport "for the near future."

She made no objection. She simply rose and walked out.  She kept expecting someone to stop her.  Shove her up against a wall. Snap on handcuffs.  She almost tripped as she hurried out of the building and speed walked away.  Just away.  She could have hailed a taxi, she could have taken the tube, but she just walked. Outside.  In the air. Finally, she came to a small park and sat on a bench. And looked about her at how very surrealistic everything seemed.

 _Think_ , she ordered herself.  _Stop reacting and think_. She pulled out her phone and did a couple quick web searches. Then she did find a cab.  "Broadwick and Warder," she told the driver. 

Jordan was convinced if she could just get the police to believe her about Benedict being on the train with her, if they could see her as an honest person, they'd know she couldn't have killed that man.  There was little logic to this, but Jordan was operating on instinct, not intellect.

A few minutes later she was reading a building directory. " **3 -  Conway van Gelder Grant**."

The redhead at the desk looked to be about Jordan's own age.  Something about her clothes and posture, the sharp eyes that belied the friendly smile, made it clear she was more than receptionist.

Jordan didn't hesitate at all.  "Are you Anna?" 

"I am. Am I expecting you?" she asked.

Jordan had formulated her speech in the taxi. She knew she had only a minute before this woman or someone else would throw her out.  She held out her business card.  She'd written all her personal contact information on the back. Along with Detective Stovall's.

"No. I'm going to tell you something very important and leave.  I'm telling you, specifically, because Benedict Cumberbatch mentioned your name at an awards dinner, and I know he respects you." Anna opened her mouth and Jordan instantly held up a palm to stop her. "No.  Just listen, I swear I'm not some crazy fan and I'll leave in one minute."

Anna looked at Jordan's card.  Something about Jordan's title and Mercy Fund's name seemed to reassure her a little.  She was wary, but nodded for Jordan to go on.

"Monday morning I rode the train to Cardiff and your client sat across from me. Later that day a man, the steward, was killed in Cardiff.  The police just had me in, they are holding my passport. They think I'm a liar and murderer, apparently."  Anna started to look around as if for help. "I'm not, of course I'm not.  It's all too complicated, but here's the thing.  They think I am lying about Mr. Cumberbatch being on that train.  Please. Tell him. Tell him my name and remind him.  I just need him to call the detective and confirm he was there.  That's all. I'm not asking for a character reference, just that he confirm we rode up to Cardiff that day. Just that truth, is all I ask. This is very serious.  Please.  Just  -  please. Deliver the message to him. Tell him ..." Her eyes filled and for a moment Jordan feared her voice would break. "They kept the note he wrote me."  She took a breath. "Please, Anna. Thank you."

And she walked out.  Just like that.  They'd give him the message or not. Jordan thought it was best to be true to her word.  Take up a minute of time and leave without being asked. She knew she sounded mad enough as it was.  _Mad_ , she thought.  _Not "crazy."  The British thing is rubbing off_.

Outside, the sun had disappeared and she felt too vulnerable and raw to contemplate taking the Tube. She splurged on a taxi to her Cumberland Mews flat.  All the apartments opened onto the courtyard garden, which seemed a safe haven to Jordan that day.

Once inside, she became aware of how chilled and exhausted she felt.  Jordan cranked up her heat, made Earl Grey with honey and lemon and wrapped herself in the afghan her mom had crocheted and paid more to ship her than it would have cost to buy one new in London.  She'd called it the world's most expensive hug. Jordan curled up on the couch and waited to cry. But right that moment, she was simply numb. She drank off the tea and laid her head back. _Please, please, someone tell him what happened.  It's just a phone call_.  A fine patter of rain began against the window behind her.

She slept.

**~~~**

The first thing Jordan was aware of when she woke was the dark. _What the hell time is it?_ She sat up groggily, noticing the second thing: She had curled herself into a ball on the sofa and tangled herself in the afghan.  The third thing announced itself immediatly.  The thing that had awakened her.  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

If she'd been more awake when she stumbled to the door still wrapped in her mother's afghan, she might not have simply swung the door wide open.  It might have occurred to her that Frick and Frack could be waiting with a warrant or whatever the British used to justify arrest.  But she wasn't awake and she didn't think of that and so she did swing the door wide open.

It wasn't a detective in a rumpled suit.  It was a slender figure in blue jeans wearing a backpack and a black leather jacket,  lifting off a motorcycle helmet. He ran a hand through his now-black hair, freeing a few waves. A look of serious concern showed in the seagreen eyes even the dim light outside her door couldn't dull.

"Tell me everything," Benedict said.  

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

"I'm sorry," she said, "You'll have to give me a minute to get used to looking at you. Or, you know, a few hours."

 "I know what you mean," Benedict said. "I babbled like an idiot when I met Harrison Ford and was rendered entirely speechless when a man at a party said hello and turned out to be Clint Eastwood." He looked almost embarrassed.  "Not that I'm Clint Eastwood at all."

"You were speechless?  That's hard to believe."  Jordan took a sip of her freshly made tea.  Tea Benedict Cumberbatch had made for her in her own kitchen.

"It didn't last long.  I couldn't just stand there gawping at the man, could I? Some kind of automatic social response thing kicks in, I suppose."

"Yes! Like on the train with you.  I mean, I could hardly breathe but somehow I managed to talk. I thought it was a miracle, but I suppose it's more habit." It was Jordan's turn to feel embarrassed.  She'd just told him she couldn't breathe around him.  _Crap_.

"Exactly." He reached over to touch the afghan she'd left draped over one of the chairs. "This is nice, did you make it?  I love the colors." _A really nice man_ , she thought.  He was giving her a chance to stare at him and trying to make her comfortable.  Seemed quite in character. 

After she'd found him at the door, he'd stepped inside, shrugged out of his backpack and asked,  "Are you all right?" He'd insisted on making her tea while she changed out of her sleep-rumpled work clothes.

In the bedroom, she'd pulled on some comfy old sweatpants and a favorite faded turtleneck she covered with a football jersey she'd swiped from her brother before she left the states. Comfort clothes. Donning thick socks and pushing into her old slippers, she thought, _Way to dress down for your first date with Benedict Cumberbatch_.

The clink of metal against ceramic reached her through the wall. And again.  Spoons in mugs. _I guess I really am awake_. 

Jordan's bathroom had two doors. She'd entered through the one that connected to her bedroom, took a post-nap pee. Washing up at the sink, she'd finally seen her reflection.  Ugh.  The mascara had bled into a smudge under her eyes. Her hair looked like - like she'd just woken up.

After running a brush through it her hair and tying it back, she'd washed off whatever was left of the little make-up she wore for work.  Fully awake, it was hard to care about such mundane things as what she looked like.  Murder and police and her missing passport filled her thoughts.

Now, sitting at her small dining area table with a warm mug in her hands, she watched Benedict touching her mother's afghan. The automatic social response kicked in.

"Thanks.  My mom made it for me after I got here and complained of the London damp." She sipped again, put her tea  down, crossed her arms on the table and looked straight at him.  "So. While I get used to you, tell me why you're here.  It doesn't make sense. You're certainly Clint Eastwood enough to have - well - people, I suppose they say - who handle things like this. Who'd want me to be the last person you'd contact, personally.  You aren't paying those people to ignore their advice."

"Anna called me and told me what you said," he answered.  "But before she called, she confirmed that man had been killed and where and that you were who you said you were." He looked up. "You see why I trust her, why we all do."

Jordan just nodded, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought. He shrugged and drank off his tea.  "Things developed from there, as you can imagine. Anna checked with the boss, they contacted me, I confirmed what you'd said.  Then we had to go out-of-house.  Someone had to contact the police. The firm has a solicitor, of course. A whole team of them, including one who deals with ... I suppose you'd call it criminal matters."

This time Jordan looked down at her tea. "Criminal matter." He meant her. Benedict stretched his hand toward her without touching her.  "I didn't mean to imply you're a criminal, you know." A troubled look crossed his face and he seemed to decide something.  "Look.  After a lot of back and forth, the police were contacted by Leonard Gordon, the criminal specialist. He confirmed to them that I was on the train."

Jordan looked back up, now, very relieved. " _You did?_   I mean, he did?  Thank you.  What did they say?" She didn't know what she expected to hear. That they'd been embarrassed and laughed off their suspicions?  Maybe they'd send back her passport by messenger?  They'd apologize for treating her so distainfully?  Something good, anyway.

But Benedict looked more troubled. "They aren't satisfied.  In fact, they seemed quite put out because I'd been tipping the train staff to keep quiet about being aboard." She didn't understand. "I'd been doing it for a while. Every time I took the train, in fact. The were rather humorless about it all. I understand they would be. They didn't like the idea someone could ride the train regularly and keep it out of official records."  He looked embarrassed, again. "They didn't seem to think celebrity was much of an excuse. ... They want me to come for an interview."

"What?" Jordan was outraged. "You're Benedict fucking Cumberbatch." (That elicited a smile.) "Of course you'd like to take a train without being mobbed.  Do they think you held him while I stabbed him?"  she finished.

He hesitated. "Thing is. I think they might. Or something like it." Jordan blinked. _What?_ "They seem to think if they can't independently confirm I was on the train, they also can't confirm when I left. They don't seem to understand how you could know who I was - am ..." he waved the confusing verb away like an annoying fly, " ... when I was dressed as I was.."

Jordan finally understood the phrase "her head was spinning."  Too many thoughts and possibilities chased each other through her mind. "What do they think you could possibly have to do with any of this?"

He shook his head. "Gordon couldn't get much out of them, really.  They wouldn't tell us what you'd told them." He stopped.  Looked at her expectantly.  Waited.

 _Oh._   "That's why you're here. You want me to 'tell you everything'. Just as you said when you arrived."

"Yes." He was very straightforward.  Jordan wanted a knight in shining armour on a white horse.  She got a self-serving celebrity on a black motorcycle, instead.  

"This is what Gordon suggested?  Seek out the fangirl, personally, and she'll be so Cumberbatched she'll spill her guts?" She heard the bitterness in her voice.  Which made it all the more humiliating when her eyes welled. Jordan dashed at her eyes with an impatient hand. _Son of a bitch_. But she couldn't blame him.  He had been completely straightforward. He hadn't misled her in any way. He was an actor, his job wasn't to rescue her. After all, she'd gone to him for help. Why shouldn't he come to her? But the fact that her feelings were unreasonable didn't stop her anger.

His face so full of trouble and concern and guilt ... _GODAMMIT!_   The most eloquent actor without dialogue on the planet was sitting in her tiny London flat, emoting all over the place, making her want to comfort him. _Ac-tor_. It can all be bullshit. She jumped up from her chair, startling him.

**~~**

When Jordan Banks leapt up from her chair, Benedict was sure she would start shouting at him to get out. So he was quite taken aback when she said, "I'm making some food, are you hungry?" Without waiting for an answer, she marched to her refrigerator and grabbed out a large covered bowl with such force, he feared she'd sling it across the room.  She  slammed it on the counter, found a pot and emptied the contents of the bowl into it. She set the pot to heating on her stovetop.

Benedict decided the best thing he could do was stay still and wait.  He was a smart man, good at reading people.  Good at knowing where their limits were. And this woman had had a very bad day. It also occurred to him she was pretty smart, herself. If he tried to manipulate her even a little, she'd catch him out.

She turned to him.  "Well?"

He was lost for a moment.  He let the confusion show. She rolled her eyes.  "Hungry. Are you hungry?  It's just vegetable soup and some bread, and ..." She turned back to her fridge and searched around. " ... I have some Jarlsburg in here, I think."  She came up with a large hunk of the cheese.  She was offering him food.  And she was angry, which would make him more real to her. Good.

"I'm starved. It all sounds quite good to me. Can I help?" He rose before she could refuse. A soldier ready for orders.

She pointed at a wooden casket at the end of the counter with a loaf of bread painted on it. "You can slice the bread. Thick.  I hate wimpy bread."

Benedict found a loaf of whole wheat with what looked like ... flaxseed meal? ... speckled in it. When he unwrapped it, a fine aroma wafted up. A bit of rye? "This is homemade?" 

She colored. "The result of having no life, I suppose. And being homesick.  So I cook.  Bake." She shot him a defensive look. "I'm not some rube. I just like what I like, so I make it, myself."  She pulled a tub of what was obviously real butter out and put it on the table.

"Milked the cow, yourself, did you?" he asked, perfectly straight-faced. It was a risk, but he was starting to like her. 

She answered matter-of-factly.  "Bessie is damned particular about who touches her teats.  Has to be me."

"So," he ventured, "With you she's udderly happy?" A smile.  She eyed the butter and picked it up. "I have a butter idea."

**~~~**

Later they sat back down at her table with thick slices of bread she'd browned in an iron skillet in rosemary oil. Large bowls of a fragrant, savory soup swimming with vegetables and cannelloni beans and chopped tomatoes. A plate with the cheese, a few olives and the last of some marinated mushrooms she "put up."  She set glasses and a pitcher of water on the table. 

"I have some wine, but not what you're used to and besides, we need to be able to think."

They ate mostly in silence.  He praised the soup and she passed it off.  Her mother's recipe. She'd served coffee after taking away the soup bowls and plates. Brought a blue plastic storage bowl with lid and placed it in the center of the table. She popped the lid and shoved it toward him.

"Kitchen sink cookies. 'Biscuits' to you, I suppose.  A little oatmeal, a touch of peanut butter, some walnuts.  You might come across a chocolate chunk or two. I think these are dried cranberries I had left over. You just shove in whatever's around the kitchen, you see. They are eminently dunkable." She proceeded to demonstrate. Benedict followed her lead and took a bite. _Nirvana_.  If she could market them she'd make a fortune.

"There's no actual recipe for these, is there?" She shook her head. He took another, broke it in half, dunked a corner. "It wasn't Gordon's idea.  No one but you knows I'm here. No one wanted me to speak to you at all."

She thought how glad she was this batch of cookies turned out so well.  Sometimes she threw things together and the combination clashed in the mouth.  This worked. She spoke without looking up. "I had to have some time.  Some blood sugar. Some control over something to be able to think clearly. I had to have dinner, right that minute." She looked up. "I still have the same question. Especially after what you said. Why did you come here?"

"Because I like control, too. And it doesn't make sense.  I can see why they'd suspect you, you were at the crime scene around the time of the murder.  But they've had time to check you out. Anna had it done in a few hours. There's nothing in your background at all that would suggest anything connected to drugs or the victim. So, why bring you in and why let you go?" 

She put the top back on the cookie container. "You have an idea, I assume." 

He leaned forward. "Maybe. Depending on what you told them. What they said to you. Because I just tip the train staff a bit to protect my privacy.  You think if the police come to investigate the murder of a co-worker they aren't going to give me up?  Of course they are."  

That made sense to her. "They knew all the time you were on the train, that I sat across from you," she said, getting pissed off all over again. "Wait a minute. Why, though?" She sat back, thinking it over.  He let her be, wanting to see what she thought without influence from him. "Oh, shit," she finally turned her face to him.  "They wanted to talk to you, but didn't want to approach you, directly.  Too many flappers."

Benedict started at her reference to _Gulliver's Travels_.  The nobility were followed about by  "flappers" who touched their ears when they should be listening and their mouths when they should be speaking - this necessitated by the noble personage being too entrenched in their important thoughts to notice on their own.  Of course, this gave the servant flappers great power - they  could keep their master isolated simply by failing to flap.  It was the servant, in the end, who decided who the rich and powerful would hear from or speak to.   

Benedict found this a disturbing idea when used in reference to himself.  But he didn't have time to dwell on it, as Jordan was still speaking.

" ... so they went through me.  Then I'd contact you and you'd go to them on your own."

He smiled at her, nodded.  _Smart girl_.

"And that's exactly what we both did," she said. "I don't get it, what's the point?"

"To see if we would. To see if we'd behave the way they'd expect innocent people to behave," Benedict answered.  "Maybe to get me off-guard, thinking they only wanted the confirmation.  No one is compelled to speak to the police. If they told one of my fla- um, people they wanted to question me, I might have blown them off, entirely.  They set you up as a victim I'd need to rescue. What did happen when they interviewed you?"

So she told him everything.  All she could recall they'd said and what she' d said and thought, at the time. It was quite an experience having Benedict for an audience.  He was fully, intensely focused on her. The gimlet eyes never leaving her face.  Absorbing her words and expressions more than simply listening.  He maintained complete stillness. Only asking her one question: "Why did you rent a scooter that day?"

She colored slightly.  _Because I wanted time to myself to think about you_ , was not going to be what she answered.  She could think of a plausible lie, but, she didn't like lying. She settled on an edited version of the truth. "Did you ever just want some time to yourself?" He nodded. "That's why. But it's hard to explain in the circumstances.  I didn't want to browse shops or deal with people that day.  I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts."

"Is that why you went to Twmpath?" he asked.  "You thought no one would be around?" 

"No.  It was just an impulse, really." She explained to him about being a tourist on her Cardiff Mondays and having visited the rest of the local castles.  How she'd just glimpsed the Twmpath in the distance and recognized it. "The ground was far too soggy, though, to be traipsing around. So I left." Her face drained of color at a sudden thought. _The footprints_.

"What it is?" he asked, noting her sudden pallor.

"It just occurred to me.  It could have been happening right then.  While I was there.  If the ground had been dry and not soggy, I could have walked right up on them."

This time when he reached out he did touch her arm, just for a moment. "Don't think of that. Don't think about it all,  anymore." He smiled warmly. Eyes sparkled. Dimples deepened. "Hey," he said, his tone bright.  "How did you penetrate my sophisticated disguise on the train, anyway?"

They talked for a while about Sami bracelets and how bad the food was on the train. Murder receded.  After a while, she yawned hugely.  Benedict checked his watch and immediately  looked contrite.

"It's getting on eleven, you must be exhausted." He slipped on his jacket and shrugged into his backpack.

Jordan walked him to the door, handing him his helmet.  He opened the door and stopped in the doorway. "Thank you for dinner. I'll meet with this detective tomorrow." He leaned over and gave her a swift kiss on the cheek. "Try not to worry."  Then he was gone.

Jordan closed the door and leaned back against it. Her fingers lightly touched the place his mouth had pressed against her skin. She wondered at the miracle of biological engineering that allowed lips to be that soft and firm, simultaneously.  _Just when I thought I'd got used to him_ , she thought ruefully, latching the deadbolt.

Later, snuggled down under her blankets, drifting off, random thoughts of the day swimming in and out of her consciousness, an image brought Jordan awake again. The soft wet ground.  Footprints with water at the bottom. Police investigating the crime scene. A man putting his cat out saw where she'd parked. They would have found her footprints.  Seen she'd only gone partway to the mound and turned back.  They knew she didn't do it.

On that comforting thought, she fell asleep.

**~~~~**

Outside the light and noise of London,  a lone figure sat astride a black motorcycle at the side of the highway leading west, holding his mobile to his ear.  "I think she's exactly who she says she is and it's all coincidence," he said. He listened to the response, watching the occasional headlights move along the road in the midnight dark. "I do know how you feel about coincidence.  ... Fine. I'll have another go at her when I get back. But I don't think there's anything there but a nice woman who seems to be quite the good cook."

Benedict zipped his mobile into a jacket pocket and maneuvered onto the highway, headed back to Cardiff.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Thursday passed with distressing normalcy. Jordan spilled coffee on her shirt and had to change into a new one, making her rush about so as not to be late for a morning meeting.  She attended the meeting where everyone voiced opinions and no one decided anything. She conducted a training session for co-workers (who thought she should be doing everything for them because they had no idea what her actual job was) on how to access information they wanted from the database.  She spent the afternoon running down a "lost" twenty-five thousand pound donation, determining where someone had incorrectly entered it. At the end of the day, she went to another meeting with different people where everyone expressed opinions about what the meeting should really be about and no one decided anything. Normal.

What she did not do was hear from the police.  Get an apology.  Have her passport returned. Read about the arrest of the actual killer of Geoffrey Vrtis.  Distressing.

"Get a lawyer," her mother said that night, her Skype image freezing for a split-second and then reanimating.   In Denver, her mother was having a late lunch in front of her computer, while in London, Jordan was having dinner in front of her laptop.

"I'm trying to avoid spending money to get Scotland Yard to do what they should be doing on their own," Jordan said.

"Okay," her mother said, "How about going up the chain of command?  Talk to the supervisor.  They have your passport!  You're in London, after all.  What if you want to hop over to Paris for the week-end?"

Jordan laughed at the idea.  "Mom, I don't 'hop over' anywhere on my week-ends. I do my laundry, clean my bathroom and catch up on my bills."

"One day you'll meet some lovely Englishman and you'll be doing plenty of hopping." Jordan heard her mother's phone ring.  "Hang on one sec ..."  Her mother answered the call while Jordan thought _Oh, Mom, if you only knew which lovely Englishman I spent most of last night with._

She cut her thoughts short of imagining what kinds of hopping she would do that involved Benedict, given the opportunity.  That was her mother, after all, right there.  Thousands of miles away.  Jordan felt a sudden acute stab of homesickness that almost overwhelmed her.  She wanted a hug that was more than an afghan.

"Honey?" Her mother's voice brought her back. "You were far away just then."

Jordan slapped a smile on her face. "Just wondering if I should wash the bedspread this week or next." Her mom didn't believe her, of course, but didn't press her, either.

"That was the printer on the phone.  Seems to be some crisis in the new mailing that involves conflicting orders from people who had no business talking to the printer at all. I have to go wrestle with this," her mother said, sighing. "I hate cutting our calls short." 

Jordan's mother was also in non-profit, head of development for a small women's college. Jordan had spent summers interning there and, as the youngest in the office, become expert in the new database programs just being developed.  It had made her a hot commodity in the non-profit employment arena after college. It was nice being able to talk to her mom about her job.  She met very few people who understood her work and only those doing it were at all interested. No wonder she couldn't find anyone to go hopping around Europe with.  She must be dead boring.

"It's okay," Jordan told her.  "You go sort out the printer and I'll go inspect my bedspread."

"Sort out? You are picking up the lingo.  And a little of the accent, I hear." Her mom turned serious. "If you decide to approach a supervisor, you might do that first thing in the morning.  You don't want to spend the week-end worrying about all this, when you should be focused on ... making the sink chrome sparkle."

"Or going to museum openings looking for a single man wandering about like a lost puppy in need of rescue?" Jordan asked.

"I didn't say a word," her mother said.  "Love you.  Talk soon."

Jordan thought it was good advice to talk to someone in charge before the week-end, and once again felt like a stranger in a strange land.  What do you call the person who supervised detectives?  She began to think she should have watched more "telly."  At least a few crime shows.  Weren't they "Inspectors?"  Or were Frick and Frack Inspectors and their supervisor was a ... not a rank, like lieutenant or captain ... wait.  Didn't they just call the supervisors, "supervisor?"

She put "ranks of police Scotland Yard" into Google and found a Wikipedia page.  (Of course.)  Before she scrolled down to "ranks," the first sentence caught her eye including: " **responsible for law enforcement in Greater London, excluding the 'square mile' of the City of London, which is the responsibility of the City of London Police**."  She frowned.  Like most Americans, she was under the impression that Scotland Yard was a kind of all-country police department.  That they investigated everything in ... England?  The whole U.K.?  _I am so stupid_.

Cardiff was in Wales.  Wales was part of the United Kingdom, of course, but it was it's own country, also.  Wasn't it?  Like Scotland?  Or ... ?  Another search turned up the South Wales Police Wikipedia page.  What the hell was Scotland Yard doing, calling her in London to answer questions about a murder that happened in Wales when Cardiff had the South Wales Police to handle it?  She pulled over a pad and started making notes.

She read the whole Metropolitan Police Service (aka Scotland Yard) page thoroughly.  At the far right about halfway down she found a box labeled "jurisdictional structure."  The map highlighted only London, but underneath it said:   **Legal jurisdiction:  England & Wales (Northern Ireland and Scotland in limited circumstances)**.  _What circumstances?_

Jordan had a quirk. (She preferred the term "personality trait.") She easily became obsessed with a topic, idea, a thing. She felt like she must know and understand very quickly. ( "Enthusiastic learner.") The simple answer was never enough. She followed the roots and branches, the by-ways of a topic.  She had collections of books and film and notebooks at home filled with her obsession with the Russian Revolution and how it affected the poets and composers of the day.  A foray into Ancient Greek, because she wanted to translate the Gospels herself.  The Earth's tectonic plate system led to a study of paleoclimatology.  And a family history that went back before the founding of her country.  In fact, to distant relations who fought the ancestors of the people she worked for. There were more.  Many more.  As a result, she had a headful of fairly useless trivia that she could rarely recall the source for.  Unfortunately, she did not have a prodigious memory to go along with her prodigious thirst to know.

This is why she'd loved databases.  Organizing bits and pieces of reality into classes and fields so they didn't get lost. After she'd left Denver, her mother had moved all the books and notebooks into a storage locker until Jordan someday settled down in one place long enough to buy a house.  With a really big attic. 

It was just who she was and Jordan accepted herself as is because, after all, what choice did she have?  Too many people she'd known made themselves miserable trying to be other than who they were.  Jordan liked knowing things.  Every research like an exploration of a new land.  It changed her perception of reality, and so, gave her a new world to live in.  But mostly, it was fun for her and she didn't have to justify it to anyone, she'd decided.  _Some people like to leap off of bridges tied to bungee cords.  I like to learn stuff_.

And so, two hours and twelve open Wikipedia tabs later, after a meandering journey through links that led Jordan to know that the geologic periods, like the Cambrian and Silurian came from features and tribes in Wales through Sir Adam Sedgwick, one of Darwin's friends and mentors.  That "devolution" was a term referring to a legal process and not anything to do with Darwin.  That she must put a waterfall on her must-see list that was one of the Seven Wonders of Wales.  Jordan finally came back around to her basic question and found:

 

* * *

 **The Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis** is the head of London's Metropolitan Police Service ... regarded as the highest ranking police officer in the United Kingdom, despite the fact that his authority is generally confined to the Metropolitan Police Service's area of operation, Greater London. **However, unlike other police forces, the Metropolitan Police has certain national responsibilities such as leading counter-terrorism** , policing and the protection of the Royal Family and senior members of Her Majesty's Government. Furthermore, the postholder is directly accountable to the Home Secretary ...

* * *

 

There it was. The Commissioner was appointed by the Queen, but selected by the Home Secretary.  So, Scotland Yard has all the authority in the world to take over any investigation if it involves a threat to the Royal Family, senior Government officials, or terrorism. She couldn't imagine the Royal Family being involved, but  _... the Metropolitan Police has certain national responsibilities such as leading counter-terrorism policing..._

Jordan pushed her fingers into her hair and held her forehead in her hands as she stared at the screen.

_Who the fuck had Geoffrey Vrtis been?_

And why would Scotland Yard think Benedict Cumberbatch, of all people, would be involved?  No, that's ridiculous.  Have information?  Maybe.  Maybe inadvertently.  Maybe they think he must have seen something or heard something.  But ... she'd seen what he'd seen.  More, he'd slept through the trip.  She thought of the dark glasses.  _Hadn't he_?

She sat back and typed an email to her boss telling him she was taking Friday off but she'd be on her mobile.  Completely clueless as to what was really going on with the police, Jordan knew one thing for sure: She wasn't going to Scotland Yard in the morning to look for any supervisor.  She was going to Cardiff.  The only person she had to talk to was Benedict Cumberbatch.

**~~**

In the morning, Jordan realized she was faced with the same problem she had the first time she wanted to talk to Benedict: finding him and then penetrating the layers of security sure to surround him.  She decided that the solution that worked then, was quite as likely to work now.  

Once more, Anna answered the phone at Conway van Gelder Grant and even remembered her name. "Of course, I know who you are," she laughed. "Your visit was rather memorable."

So far so good.  Jordan took a deep breath and plunged right in.  "I have to make a more outrageous request than last time and I can't tell you as much.  I need to speak to Benedict.  Today.  I'm happy to go up to Cardiff, but I don't know where he'll be or how to get a message to him." 

"Well, wait a mo'," Anna didn't seem at all put off, "Let me just check something."  Jordan waited on hold for a surprisingly short time before Anna came back.  "Luck's with you today, Ms. Banks, Mr. Cumberbatch isn't in Cardiff, you see.  He says if you can come to where he is, he'll have time to talk.  Take down an address?"

Jordan did.  The address which turned out to be the location of a London theater. Anna said to go to the box office, someone would be there.  She should ask for Sam.  Jordan couldn't believe how easily her problem had been solved. "Thank you so much, Anna, you are a treasure. Oh, what's the name of the theater?"

"The Barbican."

Ever since her taxi got stuck in traffic Monday, Jordan had felt as if she'd  been wading through a sea of molasses blindfolded dragging a concrete block chained to her ankle.  And the sea was full of sharks.  So she was elated at how quickly Anna solved her problem and resolved to send her a box of homemade cookies.  Someday.  When things were normal, again.

Her luck continued. The taxi ride went smoothly, a charming young woman at the box office called Sam, who unlocked the front doors with "You must be Jordan. Come along, then." Sam, a wiry white-haired Irishman with a huge smile and enormous energy, took stairs two at a time and kept up a running commentary on the Barbican, it's history and remodel, the stars and plays both past and to come.  

Sam finally opened a door at the end of a hallway and ushered her into what turned out to be the "nosebleed" section of the theater.  He left her staring down a single curved row of seats fronted by the balcony wall. Far down the row, close to the center, she could just make out the familiar profile.  Benedict turned at the sound of Sam's "Here he is, Miss," and smiled widely.

He waved her over.  "Come. Sit. We won't be disturbed here."

She sank down on the seat next to him, looking down at a stage that seemed like a tiny space someone had forgotten to fill with seats, rather than the focus of them. 

"I don't know why anyone bothers to come at all, if they have to sit up here," she said. He didn't respond and she wondered if she'd insulted him. "Do you sit here for a reason or just today, so we can meet privately?"

He thought for a few seconds. "I need the perspective, I think. Otherwise I can get trapped by the world of the stage. Sometimes I sit in the audience and run through the play. Imagine watching it. So I'll control, but not confine."

Jordan realized she hadn't a clue what he meant and wondered if this was how people felt when she tried to explain some database function.  "It sounds like an important process. And I wouldn't interrupt you, but I really need to know what you told the police, yesterday."

He turned away from the stage and towards her. "I didn't speak to them, yet.  I have an appointment at Scotland Yard this afternoon.  I got stuck in Cardiff, yesterday, doing preproduction stuff for Sherlock."

More luck. "Ben, why do you think Scotland Yard is looking into a murder in Wales?  Doesn't Cardiff have its own police? In America there would be problems with jurisdiction. " 

"I hadn't thought about it too much.  I just assumed the Met was helping them out," he said. "Do you think it matters?"

"I'm a visitor and don't know how things work.  So you tell me.  When can the  - Met - operate outside London?"

His eyes, gray-green in the dim light of the balcony, held hers steadily. "I think they guard the Royal Family when they travel in the U.K.  There may be other things they do, I don't know."

 _He's lying_ , she thought with a shock.  How many interviews had she watched with Benedict answering questions about his work? _Hundreds. It must be hundreds._  His eyes shifted away from his interviewer when he framed a response or tried to recall events. To the side where his people were, to see if they could help him out. Those famous eyes, only still when listening or addressing the other party. This time, they hadn't wavered. He never gave a thought to the Met's jurisdiction, because he already knew.

**~~~**

He'd lost her.  He could see it, see her recede into herself.  _What did you do, Benedict?_    Morten had told him, just let them talk, he'd said. People love to run on for an audience. Then he'd smirked a bit at Benedict's expense.  But Ben knew it was a good-natured poke, he'd known Morten for twenty-five years. _Christ, I'm getting old. Not now. Now focus. Get her back_.

But before he could formulate a plan or even phrase a sentence, she rose from her seat. She spoke softly. Evenly. "Tell your friends I'm not a damned terrorist and I want my passport returned by day's end. I thought I'd hop over to Paris this week-end." Her face hardened. "If not, there won't be lawyers. There'll be Twitter. Tumblr.  Instagram.  Vimeo." That's when he saw her mobile held low, but pointing at him. She was recording.  It was a threat to him. But he didn't feel angry.  Because what he saw in her eyes was hurt and confusion. And for some reason his thoughts went to a hand-crocheted afghan in beautiful tones of cream and taupe and rose - _the world's most expensive hug_.  So he told her the truth.

"I'm sorry, I've botched this, badly. And I wouldn't blame you for walking out, but if you could find a way to stay and let me start again?" He didn't plead or assume any expressions or make any gestures to gain her sympathy. He also didn't know how she knew he was lying, but she was obviously far too clever for him to be anything but honest, now.

She considered him. He felt like a prize dahlia at a flower show.  She turned off her mobile. Slipped it into her bag and sat back down.  Not next to him, this time.  This time she left an empty seat between them. "First, my passport," she said.

Oh, how he wished he could hand it to her. "Jordan, I'm not ... I don't have a-any, any - authority or influence or position. I really am just an actor.  And a bit of a fool.  More than a bit, I suppose," he said.  It was obvious she didn't believe him. "I don't know what you think I am."

"The Purloined Letter," she responded, referring to the famous detective story by Edgar Allen Poe. "Dupin was the original Sherlock Holmes.  Seems fitting."

Benedict realized he was becoming quite charmed with Ms. Banks. "You think I'm hiding in plain sight?"

She shrugged.  "Why not?  Perfect cover for someone possibly delivering messages, for instance, in a foreign city and then disappearing the next day.  You jet around the world, you're famous for keeping private in your non-work related moments.  But you are what my mother would call a 'party animal.'  You like the drinking, clubs, dancing, stepping out for a smoke. Easy to make contact with someone passing information." 

"You think I'm a spy," he said.

Her face softened. "I think you are the Isaac Newton of your profession," she said, startling him. "I also think you're a patriot. And if asked to do a favor for the British version of the NSA or CIA or whatever, you certainly would. In fact, I think you're thrill-seeker enough to do it for the fun of having a secret identity."

She hit far too close to home for Benedict's comfort.  "Yes.  I mean, no, but in a way, yes. An old mate of mine is rather high up in Scotland Yard. I take it you found out they handle counter-terrorism?" She nodded.  "We got chatting at a charity function Friday last and I told him about going to Cardiff for publicity shots and my trick with the train. He asked if I'd help him out. There were two blokes in gray suits across from me - us - do you remember?" Another nod.

He realized she was letting _him_ run on. "My friend said to watch them. Not do anything much, just take the last row and hog it, so they had to take the two seats across.  That way, some operative of his could have a better view of them, also.  I've no idea who that was, of course. He also wanted me to go to the loo at the end and pick up something left there, an envelope, and give it to him on the platform at Cardiff. They got me aboard before anyone else. I was just supposed to pretend to be asleep and watch from behind my dark lenses."

"Watch for what?" she asked.

"Anything. A person who came back to talk to them or give them something or get something. A lot of action on their mobiles. Anything at all, I suppose," he answered. "You see, he didn't tell me anything specific. It was a lark, a chance to - "

" - play Bond," she finished for him. He blushed.

**~~~~**

_How is he possibly this beautiful?_   Jordan wanted to slap herself. The last thing she needed at this moment was to go all gooey-eyed fangirl over him. It was almost impossible not to.  As he'd been speaking, she'd seen him transform. His voice softened, he tended to look down more when he spoke. His lisp became more obvious. The muscles in his face seemed to melt, the sharp planes blur. He looked like a kid. He looked genuine.

He went on, "Then you came and they left. And I ended up actually falling asleep after the schoolteacher sat down which meant they weren't coming back, after all." He gazed down at the stage, watching as if some players were strutting their hour. "I went to look for the envelope, but nothing was there." He turned his gaze fully on her face. "No one was supposed to be killed."

"What did your handler say at Cardiff?" she asked.

He frowned. "My - you mean my friend?"

Jordan suddenly felt as if she were the adult to his child. He lived a fairly sheltered existence, she supposed.  He did tend to idealize and romanticize and was fiercely loyal to his friends.  Having a seven-percenter I.Q. and being an international film star didn't stop him from being far too naïve in this situation.

"In this scenario he's your handler," she told him. "And he has his own agenda, Ben, which is not necessarily obvious or to your benefit. You have to assume he'll continue to use you for his own purposes."

She could see his complete resistance to this idea on his face. "Think about how this all came about.  Do you really think you ran into him by accident at that charity event? You just coincidentally told him about the train, or did he lead you there in the conversation?" Benedict still looked stubbornly resistant. "He's tasked with protecting the country from terrorists and asked you, an amateur who could be highly recognizable, to play spy on the spur-of-the-moment?  Does that make sense to you?" 

He seemed troubled, but he wouldn't concede her point. "What did he say in Cardiff?" she asked again.

"Nothing.  He thanked me and said to go on with my day and forget about it," he said. "But he rang me up next morning. About you."

 _Of course_. "That's why it was so easy to get you a message. Why you came to my apartment. Why we're meeting now. Because your handler wants you to find out something about me.  ...   Wait. ... You think I'm a spy?"

"He does. Not me. Not after we talked.  But he doesn't understand. You see, Tuesday he really, well, debriefed me. Every detail I could remember.  I didn't know anyone had been killed until then - "

"Me, neither.  Not until the police called," she said, interrupting him. "So now we're back to me being the suspect.  Though I suppose we never left it.  Why?  These kinds of people have access to information, surely they must know what a complete nobody I am."

"I think that's the problem," he said. "You are a perfectly normal person. Almost too normal. And, he does have access to information. You rode the train with, well, a famous person you seem to be a fan of," he said this all in a rush, as if admitting he was famous and had fans was embarrassing to him. "But they didn't find a Tweet or a post or ...  He said you didn't mention it to anyone.  Not online, not - " Here he stopped, looking pained. Took a deep breath and finished, " - not in email."

Email?!  He saw the outrage on her face. "I know. I was shocked, too.  I mean, it's one thing to know they can do it, but..." Benedict trailed off.

"If you wouldn't mind giving him a personal message from me, tell him that spies are not the only people who understand the meaning of discretion," she said.  "Look.  Let's just talk to each other. Tell me what idiot-boy wants to know." She mused aloud, "He could have asked me, himself."

Benedict smiled.  "I think the point is to protect his identity, so people won't think it's more than a police investigation."

He shifted toward her, one arm draped along the back of the empty seat between them. "I'm curious, too.  There were other empty seats on the train, why did you insist on sitting right there? Why were you laughing? It looked like a signal to the - well, operative, I suppose, who was watching.  That's when the two across from us left. You turned your computer, shifted your angle. It looked like you wanted to face the seats across the aisle. Why did you do all of that? Why didn't you let on that you recognized me?"

"Wow," Jordan said, realizing she was going to have to explain everything to him. "This is going to be really fucking embarrassing."

This seemed to amuse him.  "Good," he said. "Then I won't be the only one."

And she told him.  Not every thought, but every thing.  For the most part, he focused and listened, again with that intense concentration.  When she said she wondered if the scarf was covering a hickey he colored and grinned and interjected, "Well, not that time."  

The second time she referred to "Glove Guy" he said, "Oh, you mean the teacher!" but otherwise, he was quiet, absorbing what she said, not looking directly at her when she talked about the more personal things, like that she didn't want to share the experience, it was too special to her. So she hadn't told anyone.

When she was done, she ventured a question of her own. "Why do you think Glove Guy was a teacher?"

"Oh, I suppose because he was marking papers with a red pen, wasn't he."

She thought about it.  Something ... _why did this bother her?_   She saw him sit down and -  "Ben! When he sat down, the train was going around a curve or something, it kind of lurched and he put his hands out to catch himself."

His eyes moved down, left and right as if he were watching a video in his mind. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I remember that, too. He wasn't carrying anything. No briefcase, or files, so - "

"- where did he get those papers?" they said in unison. They stared at one another, each looking for an answer. She could almost feel a vibration from him, gears whirring in his brain.

"There's a theme," he said.

"Tell me." Now she was the one fully focused, listening.

"Privacy," he said. "Boundaries. Control. It was what we both wanted. You said you always try to get to the train early. You said you sit in those seats I was supposed to watch, to keep people away. I got there early, sat where I did the way I did, to keep people away." He eyed her, amused, "Not that it worked."

"Hey, I'm an insensitive American, what can I say?" She said. Then she followed his thought train. "So if we did that,  maybe the gray men did the same? You're thinking ... what?  They were saving the seat?" He was nodding.

"For the teacher. Your 'glove guy.' Until the train moved." He looked thoughtful. "But why until the train moved?"

"First class almost never gets more passengers once the train starts, mostly people just get off. More off than on, anyway. Maybe ... they wait until they think the coast is clear or something?" She stopped.  It sounded right, but not exactly.

"That makes sense, but there might be more. Maybe the getting up is a signal to proceed. The men  in grey could be  running the thing, but they never do anything hands-on themselves. That would be why my  - my friend couldn't catch them in the act."

"Only one person had contact with Glove Guy," she said. "I know, I was facing him, even after you started snoring."

"I don't snore!"

She laughed a little. "Dude, trust me. You need to get checked for sleep apnea. Anyway, only one person had any contact with the guy, so only one person could have given him those papers."

Benedict shook his head. "No, no one had contact or the operative on the train, the one I didn't know, he would have seen it.  Reported it."

"You saw him, too," she said. "You even saw him give the guy a paper. And I bet you didn't report it."

"I never saw anyone give him papers," Benedict protested.

"Not papers, paper. Singular," she said.

Again, it was like she could feel his mind thrum. A look of surprise crossed his face. "Oh my God. The one person who had contact with him was Geoffrey Vrtis."

"Yeah," she said. "And a couple hours later, he was murdered."

"The Purloined Letter," he said, suddenly.

"What?"

"Hidden in plain sight. Vrtis was the go-to guy for weed or a favor. An open secret. But he was never arrested," Ben said. "What if he wasn't just a train employee?"

"You think he was one of the terrorists?" she asked.

"No," he said with a light of excitement in his eyes. "I think he was the operative. The other person in the carriage watching everything. Undercover in plain sight. His persona was a dodgy sort, someone easily recruited to do favors, who didn't ask questions if you slipped him a few pounds."

It felt right, to Jordan. "Yes. It'd be easy to get himself recruited.  People are so quick to believe anyone will do anything for enough money." 

She became acutely aware they were sitting along in a fairly dark and almost deserted theater. She looked around. Realized there was no way to see into the wings, no way to see if anyone was right below them. She leaned over to him and spoke very quietly. He lowered his head, to hear her better.

"I imagine during a performance, the people in these seats can hear what's said on stage," she said. "Can anyone down there, hear what's said from these seats?"

Benedict looked about. "Oh, shit," he said. He stood up.  "C'mon. We're going someplace a lot more private."

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/5CNpxyY)

Benedict passed her on the way to "someplace a lot more private." He already had his cell in his hand.  She hurried after him and grabbed his arm to keep him from completing the call.  "No, wait," she hissed, looking around the empty theater for eavesdroppers.

He stared down at her hand on his arm, at her blatant physical interference with him. His eyes seemed suddenly dark. Cold. His expression frozen. Jordan didn't think of Sherlock or Khan or any character he'd played. She thought of a small boy who kicked a little girl off a stage. Of an older boy who put another into a wall for attempting to bully him. And Jordan wondered in that second, _what it would take for this man to kill_?

She took her hand from his arm. "Please."

The tension eased, somewhat. He waited for her to go on.

She lowered her voice. "If they can track my calls, they can track yours. Just tell me. How do you know your friend works for the Met? Because he said so? Or do you know? How do you know he's not MI5?"

He also spoke very quietly. "What do you know about MI5? And what would make you even think of him working there?"

"I looked up Home Secretary when I was figuring out jurisdiction. It says Scotland Yard and MI5 report to the Home Office. Both tasked with fighting domestic terrorism.  They're like, well, not the same thing, exactly, but there's a seamless join."

He considered what she'd said. "Okay.  Come on, then."

He led her downstairs to the box office. The young woman was gone, but there was a land line phone.  He used it to tell someone that he'd be tied up and to cancel his afternoon appointment. He also said he was turning off his phone to get some time to focus.

Jordan was relieved they were now on the same page, at least, in terms of privacy and caution. But she hadn't missed the fact that he'd never answered her question about who exactly his friend worked for.  She didn't know if he didn't want to consider it, had and wasn't going to talk about it, or was waiting until they had the privacy they now both sought.

Benedict pushed a button on the phone and dialed three numbers. A page. He rooted around in a drawer and found an envelope with the Barbican logo.  The kind of envelope you picked up with tickets being held in your name.  He wrote her name on the outside.  "Give me your mobile, " he said.  She did. He turned it and his own off and slid them both into the envelope. He sealed it and put it in the back of the drawer.

She wondered why she trusted him.  He hadn't been straightforward, he was someone she had to admit she didn't know at all, really. And he might well be right in the thick of whatever was going on.

But then she flashed on an image of him on a stage at a panel.  The night was stalled by a fan who droned on and on, embarrassing herself, unable to get to her point, the audience more restive with each second. Benedict could so easily have made a joke at her expense, gotten the cheap laugh most other actors would have gone for to get the event moving again.  He could have sat back and just endured, allowing his audience to sympathize with him. Perhaps one would rescue him and say something to the woman holding the microphone and the event hostage.

But what he did do, was sit forward and give her his full attention as if there was nothing more important to him at that moment than what she was saying.   And no one in the audience dared make fun of her or even clear their throat loudly.  Ben validated the fan with his perfect attention, protected her with his Alpha presence.  It was one of the kindest things Jordan had ever seen a celebrity do. It was when she had started thinking of him as "Prefect to the World." It was, she realized,  why she trusted him now.

Sam showed up at that point, with a smile and nod for Jordan and a quizzical look for Benedict. "Sam," Ben said, leading the older man away for a private chat, " I need a rather large favor."

 **~~**  

Ten minutes later, Jordan found herself in Sam's twenty-year old Land Rover.  Benedict negotiated the lunchtime London traffic expertly.

"You're taking us somewhere private?" she asked him.

"This _is_ somewhere private," he answered. "No G.P.S., no way to track us. Most of a tank of gas." He downshifted as they came to a light. "So. To answer your question. No, I don't know if my friend is Met or Secret Service. I've known him since we played Rugby together in school.  I didn't ask him for an identity card."

"But have you known him 'since'?" she asked. "Or did you know him then and meet him again, now? I mean - "

"I know what you mean," he interrupted her. "All right, we did lose touch when he left for Sandhurst. There were a few Christmas cards, but ...  We were both busy.  You know," he finished.

"I only know that right now I trust one person and that's you and I barely know you." He looked a little sad for her at this admission. "Don't look like that, it's my own fault. It's what happens when you let work get too important.  It eats up what should be your life. I sort of forgot to make actual friends since I've been here. Anyway," she moved off that topic. "I think we have to stop being a celebrity and a fan for now and tell each other everything. See if we can figure out what happened."

His lips pressed, as they did when he wanted a second to think before he blurted out his first thought. "You think _we're_ going to solve the murder at Rhiwbina Twmpath?"

"I think," she said with some asperity, "That you're smarter than I am.  But not by much."  He looked a tiny bit abashed. He'd apparently thought he was a lot smarter than she.  Jordan went on.  "I think between us, we have different ways of looking at things and a lot of information, because we were the only ones sitting in those seats.  And - I think your friend told you more than you've so far told me. And you should."

Benedict shook his head. "There's more, but not really much. He said they'd found this pattern. Every time the gray men took the train, in the next few days, something happened. He didn't say what, but I imagine the kinds of things you don't see on the news but that would add up to something suspicious." 

"Like what?"

"Maybe thefts of things used in bomb-making?" he suggested.

"Maybe," she said.  "Or maybe someone getting transferred from one department to another, or people suddenly resigning. Maybe they are trying to get inside the government, somehow."

"We're just speculating wildly, you know" he said as he maneuvered the big black box of a vehicle onto a highway, leaving the city behind.

"But all the speculations have something in common," she said. "You need data, information, to make them happen. So what's going on with the train is information transfer.  Too easy to intercept and trace these days, using electronic methods, phones, texts, email. So they do it the old-fashioned way. In person.  Hand to hand."  

"Agreed. But that was the problem.  They never speak to anyone, never interact with other passengers in any way.  They always take the seats in that last row.  They always get up and leave at some point and go to the dining car, never eat off the trolley. They leave at a different stop every time. That's why he wanted those seats neutralized - " She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Not my word, it's what he called it. They believe the gray men must have been communicating visually, directly, with whomever was sitting across from them."

 _Ohhhh._ "That's why I seemed so suspicious," she said.  She looked around, suddenly aware they were headed out of town. "Where are we going?"

He grinned. "Back to the scene of the crime. Gives us a couple hours to see what we can figure out. You know, I can't remember the last time I was anyplace where someone else didn't know where I was."

"I know where you are," she said.

"You don't even know where you are," he grinned. "So let's go over what we know. Or assume or surmise."

"First we have to answer the question: why you?  Recruiting a civilian is outrageous enough.  Why you, specifically?"

"Because I ride up to Cardiff, sometimes?" he said. 

"I think it's because you're a celebrity," she said.

"I thought I wasn't being a celebrity now."

"Just to me.  And only until we figure this out.  Then I'm going right back to fangirl status. It's much less stressful."

"How can it be about me being a celebrity, when he told me to make sure I was wearing my 'disguise?' " he asked.

"I dunno, exactly," she admitted.  "But - they needed the seats occupied. Presumably so whoever was supposed to sit there would sit someplace else rather than draw attention to themselves by asking you to move. That way, the operative would  see ... what?" She turned to him for the answer.

He took one hand from the wheel and scratched the back of his head, then smoothed the hair down.  It was such an endearingly familiar gesture, Jordan almost giggled. 

"He'd see a change, if their theory was correct," he finally answered. "They'd change their behavior on the train to find a different way to communicate. Or cancel the action and there would be nothing suspicious happening the next week, maybe. They were testing the theory that whatever was happening, was happening on the train, not on the platform or at a hotel. But - wouldn't that happen if I wasn't famous, as well?"

"This guy, your handler, he never referred to your fame when he recruited you?" she asked.

"No!" he said firmly. "I have radar about people using me that way.  He discussed the situation with me as if I were someone he knew he could trust. Simply an old friend ... " he trailed off. His eyebrows lowered, his head tilted. "At the end. I was telling him how I wrapped up and kept my face covered and he laughed and said something - something like, 'Mate, every square inch of your mug's so well-known I wouldn't be surprised if one of the targets asked for an autograph.'  We laughed. It was a joke." But he looked doubtful.

"He was preparing you," she said.  "If anyone else is in the four seats, the gray men are going to make sure they're regulars. If they aren't, they'll abort.  Where's your friend going to get four regular train riders to sit where he tells them?  So, he uses you to answer the question:  Why would one guy want all the seats to himself?  Doesn't that make him suspicious?  Not if he's a famous actor, _which the steward would know_.  So Vrtis could reassure them. Maybe your friend was afraid they wouldn't believe him. Want to test it out for themselves. Get a look at you close up."

Benedict looked grim. "Of course. He wanted the plan or the operation or whatever the gray men do, to happen.  He wanted to test the theory that it was communication with people across the aisle.  He wanted to get them out into the open, where Vrtis could see them better, see what was going on."

Jordan had that feeling she always got when working on a thorny database issue, that she was on track, that she'd found the path to resolution.  "They don't know how many - bad guys, I guess - are on the train.  Vrtis has to keep his cover, so just before Cardiff, he leaves information in the bathroom for you to get and take to your handler. The report of what he found out. Then he stays in character all the way to the end."

"But he didn't leave me anything," Benedict pointed out.  "The gray men left really early, after you sat down. Maybe they aborted the whole thing and there was nothing to learn."

"Then who was Glove Guy and where did he get the papers?  What was he doing?"

Benedict steered for an exit and into the lot of a kind of diner/fast food hybrid. He pulled a fifty pound note from his pocket. "Do us a favor and get some food. We both think better with blood sugar."   

 **~~~**  

INSIDE THE RESTAURANT, a lunch crowd filled the tables and a few people waited by the door for seats to open.  Jordan  ordered coffee and muffins at the baked goods counter, grabbed a couple bottles of water out of a case.  She waited for her order near a table by the door where a woman read a newspaper and her ten-year-old pored over a word-find  in a puzzle-book, circling his finds in red crayon. 

 Jordan felt a stab of pure envy at the normalcy of the scene and wished fervently to soon be sitting with a friend in a diner, killing time waiting for food. Complaining about the service. _You have to actually make a friend for that to happen, you know_.  She shook off the thought, accepted the bag with her order.

Benedict had moved the Rover to the far end of the parking lot where he'd backed it against the wall of another building. He had a view of the whole area, and no one could sneak up on the car.

Inside the vehicle, he raised his eyebrows when he saw she'd bought a half-dozen muffins for lunch, but said nothing except "Thank you." He drank off half a bottle of water in one.

"It was fast and at least there's quantity," she said.

"Tell me exactly what you saw happen between Vrtis and the teacher," he said, selecting a muffin.

She thought for a moment as she stirred cream packets into her coffee. "I wasn't paying that much attention, I was still adjusting my laptop when I turned away from you." She kept thinking and he waited silently for her to go on. "I don't think Vrtis even asked him if he wanted anything.  I think he just put the newspaper down and moved on."

"What is it?" he asked, noting the puzzled look on her face.

"I'm not sure but, it seemed like the teacher - " she adopted his reference for Glove Guy, " - was working on the papers as soon as Vrtis walked away. They must have been inside the newspaper."

Ben nodded. "That might be all the gray men paid Vrtis to do. They both had newspapers.  They left their seats with them. We didn't see it, but they somehow pass the papers, or one of them, to Vrtis. Could be as easy as dropping them on the trolley as they walk by."  

Jordan agreed. "Then, later, the teacher drops them back on the trolley for the gray men to pick up.  Vrtis makes sure the papers stay safe until they do.  Unless ... do those trolleys end up back at the dining car?"

"Where the gray men go after they leave the carriage! Vrtis could have handed the newspaper back with the marked papers inside.  That way, the gray men have no direct contact with their own operatives." He finished a muffin and reached for his coffee. "I wish we could figure out what the teacher was doing."

Benedict headed back to the highway, the coffee cup snugged between his thighs. Jordan was considering the question and wished he'd used the cupholder, it would have been far less distracting.

"Any ideas?" he asked.

" I beg your pardon?" she asked, surprised he'd make such a ... _oh ... wait .. Get it together, Jordan_. "Yes, ideas about what he was doing.  Okay.  I was thinking about how data flows, information. The gray men are in charge.  They give teacher some data, some papers inside a paper.  They are giving him information."

"Right," he agreed. "But it's a two-way transfer. Because it's a risk, giving the papers back to them." He frowned.  "If you think about it, it was a risk to use a red pencil, it caught both our attention. Why not just a plain black one?"

The vision of a word-search in a puzzle book marked in crayon swam into Jordan's mind.  She smiled. "Because you need to make clear what is your writing as opposed to someone else's. Ben, he was doing a cypher! Breaking a code for them. He had the encryption key."

"Yeah-yeah-yeah," he said, excited. "Or, translating one they'd already broken, because they don't speak Farsi or Chinese or whatever language it was in originally. That has to be it, that's why the papers had to go back to them."

"But, why did they kill Vrtis, then? Did they find him out?" she asked.

"Because they always were going to kill him," he said stonily. "He played his part, too well.  He was a convenient cog who could tie the gray men to the teacher. They lured him out to the Twmpath, said that's where they'd pay him, maybe. A good place for a murder, because kids cut through there, an easy place to peddle drugs. The locals would think it was a drug deal gone bad."

"Except he wasn't a drug dealer at all." Jordan said sadly.

Benedict guided the Rover to a wide spot at the side of the road and stopped. He turned to her. Waited.

Jordan sighed. "Back to Scotland Yard?" 

He smiled at her kindly. _Prefect to the World_. "Probably just back to the Barbican. I suspect they'll be waiting."

They were.

**~~~~**

Jordan sat in the passenger seat of the Jaguar with her arms wrapped protectively around her purse, her passport tucked safely inside.  The car's glass was smoked, night had fallen and the only person who could see the famous profile was her. And see, she did. She stared at him the whole time he was driving her home.  _Benedict Cumberbatch was driving her home._ He'd insisted.

The intermittent light and shadows played over the angles of his face, backlighted the unruly mop of curls that fell over his forehead, that he'd brush back once in a while. She didn't know why, they never stayed back.  Habit, she supposed.

He glanced quickly at her from the corner of his eye.  "Celebrity?"

"I was just trying to figure that out. I'm not sure what you've become to me.  I'm still a fangirl, though. Forever. And you're still Isaac Newton. Except, you know, beautiful." 

He shifted into fourth. "You're trying to make me uncomfortable?" 

"We're a mile from my flat. You're about to disappear from my life forever, Benedict Cumberbatch, and you are a powerful presence. ... I need the distance."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, handing it to her. "Call yourself."

Stunned, she took the phone. "Why?"

He stopped in front of her building and turned to her. "Because you're a good mate for a murder investigation. Because I don't like the word 'forever.' Okay?"

She knew very well he wasn't suggesting romance. But she also knew he had just declared his like for her. And his trust. _Better than sex_ , she thought.  Jordan put in her number and answered her own phone. She handed his back. 

They smiled. And she got out of the car and closed the door and watched him drive away into the London night, through a fine drizzle like falling fog.

Jordan climbed the stone steps to her apartment, holding her new friend close to her heart and trying to remember if there was any soup left.

 

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/hjSsCPG)

### CODA

Benedict drove all the way to the back of the parking lot of the restaurant just off the M5. At the back of the lot, he pulled up to the wall of the building, next to a nondescript blue sedan, already parked, backed up to the wall. The driver's window slid down, as Benedict lowered his own. 

"How'd you leave it?" Morten asked.

"Gave her my number," Benedict answered. "I didn't get a chance to ask at the Barb, they showed?"

Morten lighted a cigarette. "About twenty minutes after you left. Sam's taking care of transporting them. You got Ms. Banks out of there just in time. "

"I need all the fans I can get," Benedict said. "Can't allow them to be assassinated by any sociopathic siblings who happen to cross their paths, can I?"

"That one was too smart by half," Morten said. "She believed you?"

Benedict ignored the stab of guilt. "Yeah." He lit a cigarette of his own.  "She thought you were MI5, though."

"Did she?" Morten looked semi-impressed. "She is clever, only missed it by one."

"The Prazek brothers would be in  Amsterdam by now, if it wasn't for Jordan Banks." Benedict pointed out.

"She has my undying appreciation," Morten returned. "So what's next for you?" he asked as he started his engine.

"Cardiff," Benedict told him. "I'm still an actor trying to make a living, mate."

"Uh-huh." Morten's window rose and he drove out of the lot. 

Benedict backed away from the wall, and stopped, allowing Morten a few minutes lead.  He reached under his jacket and took the Walther out of the rig that held it flat against the side of his chest. He slid it into the hidden compartment under his seat. 

Then he pulled out of the lot, himself. Back on the road to Cardiff.

 


End file.
